


Carpenter's Daughter

by EqualsTrashFlavoredTrash



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, uhh boats?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 11:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13317225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EqualsTrashFlavoredTrash/pseuds/EqualsTrashFlavoredTrash
Summary: A saxon girl, captured in a raid is taken in by Floki and in turn makes friends with Ivar





	Carpenter's Daughter

“Slave!” The barking voice broke her reverie, bringing her back to the reality of her situation; bound to the mast of a heathen ship returning north. “What are you looking at?” The man’s use of her language was crude and broken, but his question was still understood. He sat on the bench in front of her, shirtless and rowing in sync with the other men who lined both the port and starboard walls of the vessel.

“The boat,” she replied, her voice cracking from the combination of dehydration and overexposure to the salty air of the North Sea. “I wonder how it was made.” 

The man studied her for a moment, considering her response. “Admiring our great war ship, hm?” he teased before twisting his head, his long auburn braids falling from his shoulder, fanning across his back as he lifted one hand from the oar without breaking stroke. He brought his fingers to his lips and he whistled, calling to a man at the head of the ship. Catching his attention, he beckoned him over with a wave. 

Though not quite as broad chested as the others, the approaching man towered over every man on board, most of whom already seemed as tall as trees to her. She immediately noticed his piercing blue eyes rimmed with kohl, two lines extending out to either of his temples and the apples of his cheeks. 

The rower spoke in their native language to the newcomer, smirking as he nodded towards the small slave that sat below him. She tried to reel back, bumping her head to the wooden mast as the giant sank to a crouch, getting uncomfortably close to her face. 

“You like my boat?” he asked with a smile. She was so surprised by the high pitch of his voice she lost her own and meekly gave an affirmative shake of her head. Though he seemed to know more of her language than the first man, he still spoke with a thick accent, “And what do you know about boats?”

Timidly, she cleared her throat, trying to gather some semblance of a voice. “My father was a carpenter. He taught me.” His brow pinched with confusion, eyes narrowing before abruptly pivoting to face the other.

Most of what he said was gibberish to her ears, but she did catch him mimicking the word  _ carpenter _ . The man at the oar shrugged with a raised brow and shake of his head, giving a response even she could understand. “What does that mean? _ Carpenter _ ?” the decorated man asked, returning to his previous position, still unnervingly close. 

Her eyes flooded with worry, confused by his quarry. She gnawed on her lip, carefully contemplating a response for fear of punishment should he not like her answer. None of the men on board treated the captured women with a light hand, even when they were pleased or in a joyous mood. 

With a hard swallow she managed to dredge up enough saliva to wet her tongue and speak, “He-- My father, he worked with wood.” She paused to twist her hand, the raw fibers of the rope biting at her wrists as she rapped her knuckles against the mast. His bright blue eyes flicked to her fist as his own raised to scratch at his beard, humming to himself. “He made objects. Chairs, tables, benches, trunks, barrels.” 

“And he taught you his craft?” His eyebrow quirked as his fingers stayed buried in his facial hair.

She nodded, bashful again under his appraising look. “Some, but he died--,” she cut herself off, eyes pulling away from her interrogator to the rest of the crew, remembering she was in the company of ruthless murders who had taken her father’s life and left her home in ashes. If she had any more tears left to cry, they would have been coating her cheeks a new. 

Gently the man reached forward, guiding her to face him with a single finger on her chin. Her lip trembled as she met his gaze. “What is your name?” 

“Sibley,” she mumbled, barely audible above the slap of the waves against the hull of the ship and the chorus of grunts from the rowing men. He drew away, shifting to stand up.

“Sibley,” he repeated, testing the pronunciation before placing a hand on his chest and replying, “I am Floki.” 

At the time, Sibley cared nothing about the man or his name. This came to change after the boat docked and she learned Floki was to be her master. 

It was her understanding that she was now a slave, captured and brought to a foreign land to labor. But from the moment she stepped across the threshold into Floki’s cabin she was never treated as such. Helga welcomed Sibley with open arms, treating her more as a daughter than a servant.

Still, she did have to work, and it was alongside Floki and his ships. Having Sibley take over the menial tasks such as planning and shaping the boards, Floki was given more time to focus on the details of his projects. He often commented that they made a good team, praising her as she quickly picked up techniques his other students had struggled with. 

Though Sibley mourned the loss of her father and her previous life, she slowly grew comfortable in her new world. She eventually started to pick up the language from listening to Floki tell great stories about his Gods as they trudged through the underbrush of the forest, searching for the perfect tree. 

The only constant from her former life felt to be the moon. As the phases waxed and waned night after night, marking the passage of time, Sibley was able to forgive and came to love Floki as she loved her deceased father, learning at his knee just as she had before. 

Her surrogate parents were not the only ones whose interests and affections she had captured. Sibley hadn’t been living under their roof for very long when she first met Prince Ivar. 

Floki told as many stories about Ragnar as he did the Gods. Sibley couldn't help but grin, watching how he would wave his arms around wildly, recounting past battles while she and Helga sat, enrapt with every word. It was no secret that Floki could command a crowd like none other when he began telling tales and Sibley wanted nothing more than to sit at his feet and listen to every single thing he knew.

“I would love to meet Ragnar,” she exclaimed, still exhilarated by the energy of Floki’s last story about how his dear friend feigned his death to gain entrance to the Frankish court. The air seemed to go cold in an instant as his jovial expression dropped. Sibley’s eyes flicked to Helga, who sat across the fire shooting her a tense but worried expression. 

Sibley panicked, she had assumed that Ragnar was not dead. Floki spoke of him as if he had seen friend earlier that day, but upon their reactions It quickly became apparent that was not the case. 

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, clutching her hands to her chest, worried she had made a terrible error. “I did not mean--” Sibley was cut off by Floki’s palm gentle patting her knee. 

“Ragnar is not dead,” he began with a sigh. “But we do not know where he is.” Floki spoke clearly, but in a hush tone, staring into the flames of the fire before them. 

Floki’s icy blue eyes gazed beyond the burning embers, removed from the moment and contemplating something deeper than Sibley could understand, when Helga cleared her throat. “You may meet his sons yet,” she offered with a smile, “They all live in Kattegat with their mother.” 

Helga suggested that one evening the three of them would go to a feast in the great hall, where Sibley could meet all of the sons of Ragnar formally, but it seemed someone one above them intended to cut that plan short. 

It was a beautiful warm day. Helga had headed to the market after Floki took off into the woods to mutter to himself, leaving the young slave alone. The sun was blazing, causing her to sweat underneath her woolen dress as she tidied the cabin. It seemed every few minutes the glint of sun off of the waves would catch her eye, drawing her attention away from her present task and towards the water of the fjord. 

Once she had finished going over everything inside the abode for the third time, Sibley finally sighed to herself and gave into the beckoning call of the waves. Comfortable in her solitude, she tugged her dress up over her head, and tossed it to the side so it landed on one of the chairs before hurrying to the water.

Though Sibley did not know how to swim she felt no worry. The ground under the water, having such a gradual decline, she easily found a depth she was comfortable in. Splashing around, she enjoyed herself and the refreshing water, wetting her hair before twisting it atop her head. She waded through the calm water, drifting through the shallows, between the smaller sailing vessels anchored to moors, until her skin turned pruney. 

Climbing up the beach towards the cabin, Sibley hummed to herself, comfortably nude in the midday sun. The cabin door creaked as she opened it and a voice spoke out, “It’s not polite to keep a cripple wait--” The boy sitting at the table interrupted himself as he looked up, surprised to find not his mentor as he expected but a beautiful--and very naked--girl. He couldn’t help it as his eyes slowly drifted down her body, taking in every curve and dimple he could find.

Sibley stood, frozen in front of the stranger. At first all she could register was how attractive he was, the way his sharp cheekbones contrasted with his soft lips that hung half open in surprise. She was drawn in by his wide, blue eyes as he appraised her before she remembered exactly what he was studying.

Gritting her teeth, she dove forward, grabbing at her discarded dress that was draped over the back of the chair he was in. She gave a hard yank, freeing the bottom hem of the skirt from underneath the stranger, pulling hard enough to jostle him from his seat. With a grunt he landed on the hard, wooden floor. 

Facing away from him, she fretted with the garment, scrambling to pull it back on. Once she felt decent, she turned around, ready to face the intruder and scream at him. The second she opened her mouth, the front door swung open and Floki crossed the threshold.

“Ah!,” he sighed, taking in the sight of the pair before him. “Sibley, I see you’ve met Ivar.” 


End file.
